


if it's your name in lights

by labeledbones



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 04:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12857163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labeledbones/pseuds/labeledbones
Summary: Somehow, this moment, this particular moment, is the best one of the night. Awards and drinks and celebration, but this, bringing Armie a glass of water in his apartment, is the happiest he’s been the whole night.Armie and Timmy at his apartment post Gotham awards.





	if it's your name in lights

**Author's Note:**

> General RPF disclaimer: Obviously this is fiction and probably didn't happen.

Seeing Armie in his apartment, Timmy laughs. Not just because Armie takes up nearly 75% of his living room, and not just because he is admittedly still pretty drunk, but because-

“What?” Armie asks, half a grin on his face as he drops his suit jacket over the back of the couch. 

“It just makes me happy to see you here,” he says, shrugs. “Alone.” 

“Ah,” Armie nods. “Alone.” 

Everyone else had begged off since it was nearly 2 AM, all happy but exhausted with things to do early the next morning. But Timmy had grabbed Armie by the elbow and said simply, “Come to my place,” looking over Armie’s shoulder to where Liz was trying to flag down a cab to take them back to their hotel.

And, like that, just off of Timmy’s look, Armie was putting Liz into said cab, saying he would just stay at Timmy’s tonight, promising he’d see her in the morning. Liz had shot Timmy a look of affectionate warning to which Timmy rolled his eyes. “We’ll behave, promise,” he said. Timmy wanted to feel guilty or selfish, but he couldn’t, not tonight. He was too happy, too full of electricity, and gratitude, and peace.

Now, he toes his shoes off by the arm chair and drops his own suit jacket next to Armie’s, thinking absently that he is going to forget to hang it up later and his stylist will be pissed. 

“I can’t remember the last time we were just alone in a room together,” Timmy says. They stand with the couch between them, Armie’s hands on his hips in a way Timmy thinks is supposed to ward him off but only really ever does the exact opposite. On the defensive tonight, Timmy notes, walking over to his bedroom, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes. 

“This morning,” Armie says from the living room. 

Timmy walks back in, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants. “What?” 

“We went and got coffee, remember?” 

Timmy shakes his head. A ten minute coffee run hardly counts. Not compared to those long nights in Crema, just the two of them, music, a bottle of wine pilfered from Luca’s stash, sometimes a little weed, always a lot of conversation. Those nights when he swore he could physically feel his soul and Armie’s soul twisting around each other. Maybe he’s young, maybe he’s dramatic, maybe he’s just never felt anything like this for anyone before. 

“Smart ass,” is all he says now, turning towards the kitchen. “Do you want anything to drink?” 

“Water,” Armie all but gasps, flopping down on the couch as he pulls off his tie not bothering to unknot it. The tension that had been in the room released just like that. 

Timmy takes a long time filling two glasses with water. He stands for a second with his hands braced on the kitchen counter, listening to the sounds of Armie dropping his shoes on the rug and then looking through the book scattered on Timmy’s coffee table. Somehow, this moment, this particular moment, is the best one of the night. Awards and drinks and celebration, but this, bringing Armie a glass of water in his apartment, is the happiest he’s been the whole night. 

When he comes back out, Armie is flipping through a tattered copy of _Giovanni’s Room_. He looks up at Timmy over the top of the book and raises his eyebrows. “I’m noticing a particular theme in your current reading pile, Chalamet.” He holds up the James Baldwin and then a copy of _Maurice_ and then _The Charioteer_ and then _The City and the Pillar_ , dropping each one back down on the table as he goes.

Timmy sets the glasses down next to the stack of books, and sits down on the couch. He reaches out and runs a finger along the spines of the books. “Just…exploring,” he says quietly, turning his head to look at Armie. 

“Exploring,” Armie mouths silently, considering this. And then he abruptly says, “Come here,” with a beckoning nod of his head, even though they’re sitting inches from each other. 

Timmy moves over, closes the gap between them, his thigh pressed against Armie’s thigh. Timmy doesn’t look at him. Not until Armie takes Timmy’s head in both of his hands and turns it towards him, keeping both of his hands on either side of Timmy’s face. He just looks at Timmy for what feels like years, lifetimes. Timmy doesn’t break eye contact. 

“I envy you, you know that?” Armie finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Timmy shakes his head which Armie still holds in his hands. He can see something bubbling up under Armie’s skin, something that needs to get out. 

“Your parents, your talent, the nurturing you’ve gotten,” his voice is on the verge of breaking, his fingers are pressing into Timmy’s scalp. He knows Armie’s history, his strained relationship with his parents, the terse phone calls with his mother where he tries to explain how this movie isn’t about sinners and how he’s proud of it and wants her to see it, the crestfallen look on his face when he hangs up. He knows Armie hasn’t had the advantages he’s had. Loving parents, performing arts classes, nobody ever telling him he couldn’t do this. 

He reaches up to hold onto Armie’s wrists. He still doesn’t say anything. 

“And now,” Armie says, “This is your big moment. You are so lucky. You’ve got a long career ahead of you. Don’t take it for granted.” 

All Timmy can do is shake his head again. Truthfully, he’s afraid of everything that’s going on. He feels like a million different people all at once and everyone wants to tell him who he is but he still hasn’t figured it out for himself, not even a little bit. 

“You’re so good,” Armie says. His voice is thick, borderline angry, frustrated. “You’re so open. People are going to try to take advantage of you. People are going to try and dictate your entire fucking life from here on out. Don’t let them.” 

His grip on Timmy’s head loosens just a little bit. Enough that Timmy can push his face into one of Armie’s palms. He takes in a deep breath, the salt of Armie’s skin and, faintly, Liz’s perfume. He turns his head back to look at Armie. “Can you do something for me too?” 

Armie is looking at him with a warmth that threatens to knock Timmy over. A look that seems to say he would do anything Timmy asked him to. “Okay,” he says, dragging his thumb along the sharp angle of Timmy’s cheek bone. 

“Stop letting stupid fuckers on the internet make you feel like shit.” 

Armie laughs loudly, his head thrown back. 

“That includes your parents, man.” 

Armie nods. His hands drop from Timmy’s face to his shoulders, fingers slipping under the collar of Timmy’s shirt. 

Timmy looks at him. “I’m serious,” he says. “I’m only as good as I am in this thing because of you.” He pauses, wanting to say more, unsure if he should, searching Armie’s face for the answer, coming up with nothing concrete, just abstract love, affection. The feelings he’s never sure how to define, what to do with them, where they should be placed. He drops his forehead against Armie’s, closes his eyes. He feels Armie’s hand wide and strong at the back of his head, holding him there. Maybe this is answer enough. 

Somewhere he can hear his phone buzzing, or maybe it’s Armie’s phone, neither one of them moves. Somewhere he can hear cars honking on 2nd Avenue, people yelling as they spill out of bars, the city breathing and living, as they sit here together, also breathing, also living. 

He hears his own voice, as if coming from somewhere far away like those distant city noises, “I love you?” And he hears his own voice, correcting himself, “I love you.” Not a question. 

Armie takes a breath. “Timmy,” he says, an acknowledgement draped in a warning. He sits back and looks at Timmy. “You know how I feel,” he says with a faltering smile.

“We never say it,” Timmy says. 

Armie tilts his head to the side. “No,” he agrees. “Because I’m still not sure what it means.”

“But you do,” Timmy says. “Love me?” He grabs Armie’s hand and pushes his fingers through his. He feels bold tonight.

Armie looks at their hands, tightening his fingers around Timmy’s. His eyebrows come together and Timmy can see him thinking, working out words in his mind. “Yes,” he finally says, but it sounds like consolation.

“It’s too big though,” Armie says, pulling his hand away from Timmy’s and standing up. He walks over to the window and and leans with his hands against the sill. “What we have is — ” He turns around and Timmy watches him search the room for the right word. “ — sacred.” 

Timmy gets up from the couch and joins him by the window, somehow not being able to stand the absence of his body for even that one single minute. “Sacred,” he echoes, their shoulders touching as they both turn to look out the window. E 12th street is quiet for now, leaves blow around on the sidewalk, all the lights in the building across from Timmy’s are off. 

“So,” Timmy says, not looking at Armie, pretending to be very invested in the woman walking her impossibly small dog down the street. “Does this mean I can’t kiss you?” 

Armie groans, and once again, walks away, back to the other side of the apartment, ironically standing in the doorway to Timmy’s bedroom. “I think whatever we’ve got, it’s bigger than sex or dating. Let’s not cheapen it.” 

Timmy idly imagines himself striding across the room anyway, kissing Armie hard, pressing him against the wall just to feel all of Armie’s strength trying to resist him. But what happens after that? His mind can’t seem to go any farther than that one kiss, then it’s blank, then it’s Armie back in Los Angeles with his wife and his two kids and Timmy here alone pretending he still has anything in common with his old friends or even his new friends, then it’s the two of them awkward around each other, uncertain, never knowing where the line is, then it’s over.

So he says, “You’re right.” And then, dropping back down on the couch, “Still really want to though.” And then, moving over so that Armie can squeeze in between Timmy and the arm of the sofa, “Just so we’re clear that you’re a handsome motherfucker and I’m definitely not 100% straight.” 

“Okay, Timmy,” Armie says laughing, adjusting them so Timmy’s back rests against his chest, his fingers falling absently into Timmy’s hair. “Jesus, what’s in this?” he frowns, pulling his hand back. 

Timmy shakes against him when he laughs, his eyes closing. “Don’t know,” he says. “I was told it would make my hair less, quote, insane. I don’t think it worked.”

Timmy stretches his long legs out across the rest of the couch, yawns. “What time is it?” 

Armie fishes his phone from his pocket. “Jesus, almost five.” 

“We should probably sleep,” Timmy says, already halfway there. He turns onto his side, his cheek resting against Armie’s chest, feeling the steady in and out of his breathing, the warmth of his body. 

“Yeah,” Armie agrees, reaching for the blanket thrown haphazardly across the back of the couch, knocking both of their suit jackets to the floor in the process. “Oops,” he says, spreading the blanket over Timmy. “We’re both going to be scolded tomorrow morning.” 

Timmy hums. “I’m an award winning actor. I can do what I want.” 

“What’s my excuse then?” Armie says, laughing. 

Timmy reaches blindly towards the coffee table, retrieving his copy of Giovanni’s Room. “Read to me,” he commands, handing the book to Armie. 

“This is a good one,” Armie says, opening the book up to where Timmy had last dog-eared the page. 

Timmy wriggles his body against Armie’s, teasing. “You’ve read it? Did it awaken anything?” 

“Shut up,” he says, hitting the back of Timmy’s head with the paperback. 

And then he reads to him and Timmy sleeps and soon Armie sleeps and they wake up the next morning with just barely four hours of couch sleep weighing on their eyes and tightening their necks and Armie makes eggs in Timmy’s kitchen while Timmy does a New York Times crossword from two weeks ago. 

Every once in a while Armie smiles at Timmy over his shoulder. Every once in a while Timmy asks him for help with a clue, muttering to himself when Armie’s right, “Fuck, you know all the words.” Every once in a while one of their phones pings or vibrates or, in Timmy’s case, blares five seconds of a loud hip hop song, before they reach over to silence them or, in Armie’s case, text Liz an apologetic ‘having breakfast with Timmy i’ll be there soon’. Every once in a while Timmy stops to observe the curve of Armie’s spine as he stands at the stove, the width of his shoulders in Timmy’s tiny Manhattan kitchen, and Timmy thinks, just thinks. 

It’s enough, more than enough, the way Armie slides the plate of eggs in front of him, covering up the crossword Timmy had actively been writing on, and sitting down across from him, arranging his long limbs under the table, grinning at Timmy with tired eyes, saying, even though they’ve been awake for half an hour, “Good morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Cut" by Jimmy Eat World
> 
> The books in Timmy's reading pile (all recommended queer reads if you liked CMBYN):  
>  _Giovanni's Room_ by James Baldwin  
>  _Maurice_ by E.M. Forster  
>  _The Charioteer_ by Mary Renault  
>  _The City and the Pillar_ by Gore Vidal
> 
> PS: Please be my friend [on Tumblr](http://www.elio-bonerman.tumblr.com) thank you :) :)


End file.
